


Guilty Dreams

by fireopal77



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireopal77/pseuds/fireopal77
Summary: A series of steamy dreams have Chloe on the verge of a nervous breakdown as the date of her wedding approaches. Can a surprise visit from Lucifer change her mind?





	Guilty Dreams

She hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in well over a week. It’s really starting to wear her down. There are such dark circles under her eyes she’s starting to resemble a raccoon, and she feels like there isn’t enough coffee in the world to help her get through the day. All her female friends say it’s natural; it’s just nerves, cold feet, pre-wedding jitters, it happens to every bride-to-be. With all the things left to do—details, details, details!—it’s no wonder her brain can’t shut down. As soon as she’s married, she’ll be sleeping like a baby in her husband’s arms, one and all declare. They offer well-meaning suggestions like warm baths before bedtime, long walks, classical or new-age music, aromatherapy, yoga, herbal tea, erotic novels, poetry, masturbation, intense and exhausting workout sessions, and even meditation and prescription medication, enlisting Pierce’s aid with romantic massages and lovemaking to lull her into blissful slumber, or a one-night-stand on the sly with a really hot guy. The Tribe is so excited about the soon-to-come booze-soaked bachelorette party, and Ella’s plans for male strippers and penis piñatas, that they’re all blind to the fact that Chloe is stamping her feet and screaming inside. Maybe she’s a better actress than she ever gave herself credit for? She’s managed to fool all of them, sometimes even herself.

 

Chloe knows that it’s more than just jitters. The problem is she feels guilty.

 

 Guilty because she knows she’s rushed into this despite her doubts—nagging doubts that keep tugging at her, tormenting her, crying and screaming, kicking and wailing, like a bratty child begging for some brightly colored sugar-loaded cereal at the grocery store. But Chloe keeps cramming those pesky tantrum-throwing doubts into the small, dark closet at the back of her mind then throwing her weight against the door to try to keep them from bursting back out.

 

Guilty because maybe she’s only marrying him so a day will never come when she’ll regret the safe and steady guy, the great catch, she threw back.

 

Guilty because when she puts it all down on paper, striving to silence those screaming doubts, and at the same time show herself just how smart and sensible she’s being, Marcus Pierce looks like the perfect match for her, but she knows he isn’t really. And it doesn’t matter how many lists she makes, how many sterling qualities she ascribes to him, how many good reasons she can think of for marrying him, or how cute it is when he scrapes the burnt toast, he is NEVER going to be The One.

 

Guilty because she’s willfully and stubbornly deaf to her heart screaming out who The One really is.

 

Guilty because she keeps squashing and shoving those feelings she’s trying so hard to suppress and forget into that same mental closet as all her shrieking doubts and trying her damnedest to keep them from spilling out.

 

Guilty because it feels good to be desired, even if it is by the wrong man; it’s a wonderful balm for the pain of rejection and hurt pride, if she can salve her wounds without thinking about what, or rather who, caused them.

 

Guilty because she knows seeing her with the wrong man is like a knife twisting in the heart of the right man, and maybe, when he can no longer stand the pain, he’ll finally say the words he needs to say and put a stop to all this before it’s too late.  

 

Guilty because not only is that spiteful and cruel but it’s also foisting the full responsibility onto the shoulders of someone with the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old child.

 

Guilty because she’s somehow managed to convince herself that because she should love Pierce that means she really does love Pierce.

 

Guilty because she’s somehow managed to convince herself that because she shouldn’t love Lucifer that means she really doesn’t love Lucifer.

 

Guilty because she knows she’s been lying to herself and to everyone else all this time. And the longer she keeps it up, the harder it will be to stop.

 

And, most of all, she feels guilty because that self-professed Devil keeps haunting her dreams.

 

Chloe Decker feels like she’s in Hell. And, if she’s honest with herself, she knows it’s a Hell entirely of her own making.

 

It never fails, every time she lays her head down, Lucifer is always there in her dreams—dreams that are way too vividly real for her to ignore them. Maybe it’s karma coming back to kick her in the ass because she wasn’t kinder to him when he couldn’t sleep? All Chloe knows is that every time she falls asleep Lucifer is in her head and in her bed and she can’t get him out of either.

 

Besides making frequent forays into the realms of fantasy, her dreaming mind seems determined to rewrite the past.

 

That drunken night when she went to him, tore off her clothes, and slept naked in his bed, snoring “like an Albanian field wench,” he does what she fully intended, and expected, him to do. He takes what’s offered and gives even more. When she wakes in the morning there’s no doubt about what happened the night before. She can still feel the burning kisses smoldering on her skin, the dribble of semen when she shifts her body against the silken sheets, and a lovely aching tenderness between her legs. When he climbs onto the bed to offer her vodka-spiked espresso, the cup is left to cool on the nightstand and his robe falls on the floor as skin meets skin and another round of sizzling kisses begins.

 

Instead of running out when that slutty stewardess walked in, she lets Lucifer send his unwanted guest away then stays all night with him. When she’s called to the murder scene the next morning, she has to unwrap herself from a pair of strong arms that are most unwilling to let her go. When she tries to wiggle free, he rolls her over onto her stomach and proceeds to blaze a trail of scorching kisses down from the nape of her neck to the tips of her toes, then turns her over and works his way back up, lingering leisurely over certain areas. No stewardess, dead or alive, will ever be allowed to interrupt their lovemaking.

 

That kiss on the beach is just the start. It ends with all passion spent, their bodies lying entwined, gasping and naked upon the golden sand, and even then that’s not the end, it’s only the beginning.

 

Outside Professor Carlisle’s lab, when he hesitates shyly, half-afraid to embrace her, and asks, “This is real, isn’t it?” like one awaking, startled and confused, from a dream, she takes him home and with all her heart, body, and soul gives him the answer.

 

After they dance together at their own private prom, beneath a shower of golden confetti and twirling, twinkling lights, they make out like horny teenagers in one of the leather booths at Lux. Kissing and pawing impatiently at each other, they tear their clothes off in the elevator, leaving them where they fall. They make love on the penthouse floor, right outside the elevator, then on top of the piano, on one of the caramel leather couches, and on the Italian marble steps at the threshold of Lucifer’s bedroom, before they finally make it to the bed as the first light of dawn begins filtering through the sheer black curtains. They don black satin sleep masks and go another round. He really does have tremendous stamina.

 

The night he returned from Vegas and gave her the bullet necklace she should never have taken off, instead of waking Dan and Linda to go home, she should have stayed and spent the night in Lucifer’s arms. It was where she really wanted to be. She’s never stopped regretting that she didn’t stay. In her dreams, she makes sure he gets the chance to penetrate her as many times and as many ways as he wishes.

 

When he tried, so ineffectually, to compete with Pierce, treating her like a prize to be won, as though luxuries could tip the balance in his favor, in her dreams the scenario plays out differently. Chloe still says “no” to the car, but accepts his offer to go for a drive. They can’t keep their hands out of each other’s laps, and all kinds of interesting things happen in the backseat when they find somewhere secluded to park.

 

She even dreams of riding beside him in his sleek black Corvette and casually leaning over, unzipping his pants, lowering her head to his lap, and taking him in her mouth and sucking and licking him like a greedy little girl devouring her first Christmas morning candy cane.

 

The Chateaubriand is left to grow cold on its silver-domed plate and the candles burn down low while they make love on a bed of red rose petals or in a bathtub with crimson petals wafting on the passion-churned water.

 

And instead of Pierce showing her the evidence closet, Chloe shows Lucifer. Pierce walks in on them. The naked truth is revealed and all three of them finally know what, or rather who, she truly desires.

 

She dreams of Lucifer’s slender, tanned and toned nakedness against black silk sheets. Every time she falls asleep he’s there staking his claim and marking his territory with burning kisses, bite marks and semen. His strong, slender piano-player’s hands caressing her, coaxing whole erotic symphonies of moans and groans, sighs and screams, whimpers and whispers out of her. The intensity and longing in his dark chocolate eyes every time he looks at her, making her melt like a woman sculpted of candle-wax standing at the heart of an open flame. He purrs like a well-contented cat as his tongue laps between her legs, probing and tasting her; drinking from the well of her desire. And the way it feels when he enters her, filling and fulfilling her, as though their bodies were made to fit together like this; it’s never been so perfect or so right.

 

Then there are the nights when she dreams the most peculiar things—red devil horns and white angel wings, sometimes at the same time. In these dreams, Lucifer is at once a man, a devil, and an angel—vulnerable, invincible, and beautiful. Like a virgin with a unicorn laying its head trustingly in her lap on some medieval tapestry, a naked and vulnerable devil with angel wings rests in hers, finding peace beneath Chloe’s gentle caresses. They loll and love together in a beautiful flower-filled garden. She shudders and sighs through every orgasm wrapped in strong arms and soft, glowing white feathers. It’s ridiculous! Why is she letting Lucifer’s crazy metaphors invade her mind?

 

Every night, or in the wee hours of the morning, hours before she has to get up, when she should be sleeping so her mind and body can function properly, Chloe starts awake from these guilty, sex-sodden, dreams. She wakes suddenly, gasping like a fish out of water, breasts heaving, heart and pulse pounding like voodoo drums, her long hair a wild, tangled, damp mess, her whole body glazed with sweat, hot, wet, and throbbing between her thighs, where there’s an emptiness aching to be filled by only one person.

 

She kicks the covers completely off her and wakes to find her sleep shirt bunched above her breasts. If she went to bed wearing pajama bottoms, they’re mashed down at the foot of the bed somewhere. And she just can’t keep her panties on. She always finds them tangled around one ankle, lost somewhere amongst the covers, or on the floor, sometimes halfway across the room. She’s so embarrassed she has to start locking her bedroom door and leaving the radio on in case she moans or cries out in her sleep; she doesn’t want anyone to hear the name she knows will be on her lips.

 

The room always feels hot and seems to smell overpoweringly of sex and sweat. No matter how often she opens the windows to air it out or resorts to home fragrance products, changes the sheets, or scrubs and vacuums, the odor never departs. Buying new pillows didn’t help either. Trixie even notices how obsessive her mother has suddenly become about laundry; Chloe is wearing out her clothes washing them. She even sent the drapes out to be dry-cleaned twice after she dreamed the Devil climbed through her bedroom window to have sex with her. And she’s perilously close to maxing out her credit card with scented candle shopping sprees; they actually wanted to put her picture on the wall as Customer of the Month at Yankee Candle. It’s driving Chloe crazy—she can’t figure out if the odor is real or if it’s the result of a guilty mind playing games with her olfactory senses. But she doesn’t dare ask anybody.

 

Just as troubling, the diamond engagement ring Pierce put on her finger is never there when she wakes up. She has to hunt for it every morning. She’s been late to work twice and missed breakfast several times because she has to crawl around on her hands and knees to find it. It’s never in plain sight; it’s always under, on, in, or behind something, like the dresser, a table, a chair, or under the curtains wedged up against the wainscoting. Once it even landed in a box of tissues, another time it was in a vase of flowers. One morning she almost choked on it when she absently took a sip of the cold, bitter coffee she’d left out overnight. She’s clearly taking it off in her sleep and hurling it away from her, rejecting it violently. Obviously, her subconscious mind is trying to tell her something, the problem is her conscious mind wishes it would shut the hell up.

 

She’s stopped letting Pierce spend the night with her. She makes excuses about being tired from dealing with all the wedding plans, or utilizes the old feminine standbys of headaches and menstrual cramps. Of course, she can’t keep denying her future husband sex or the right to sleep beside her indefinitely, but she just can’t risk him seeing her in the erotic throes of these devilish dreams and hearing her sigh, or even scream, a certain name. But there’s more to it than that; the excuses and denial go deeper than any dreams. Something very real happened that she just can’t shake.

 

The last time she slept with Pierce, something was off. He became impatient with her because she was taking too long to come. The way his voice sounded, just like a man at a racetrack urging the horse he had bet all his money on to come on, come on, hurry up, and cross the finish line, only made it worse. His fingers just could not coax her to orgasm. Then he made a crack about how she was lucky he wasn’t her friend Lucifer, because he’d be whining by now about how bored he was. It shattered the moment like glass.

 

Pierce speaking Lucifer’s name while his finger was rubbing rough and impatiently on her clit felt like the ultimate betrayal. Only she wasn’t sure who was being betrayed or by whom. The whole thing left Chloe reeling and feeling hurt, angry, and most of all very confused, and even a little afraid. And even about that she was confused. Was she afraid that this was a grim harbinger of their sex life as husband and wife? Or was she afraid that Pierce’s cruel little joke held more than a kernel of truth? Maybe it really was all for the best that Lucifer had lost interest before humiliation had a chance to crush her? She’d managed to pull herself together and go on working with him after his spur-of-the-moment Vegas marriage stunt, but could she do it again, if what Pierce predicted actually came true?

 

She’d pulled away so quickly she almost fell out of bed. Murmuring something about not feeling well, she hurried to the bathroom. Her tears mingled with the hot water as she stood under the shower and cried until it ran cold. She spent the rest of the night huddled on the couch in an old sweat shirt and socks, hugging a blanket, and clutching a cup of hot chocolate for comfort and warmth. More than once she reached for her phone, only to put it right back down again. Looking at her contacts list only made her feel even more alone.

 

Pierce never once came to check on her. And when he left, refreshed and well-rested, in the morning, brushing a rough, rushed kiss against her cheek, he never noticed that her eyes were red from crying or that she hadn’t slept at all. When she finally made it to work—late, after a palm tree fell out of a nursery truck and dented the hood of her car—Lucifer immediately sensed something was wrong. He brought her a tall non-fat almond milk latte, this time with extra sugar-free caramel drizzle, to try to make her feel better, and hovered over her anxiously, even offering to help her put things right when he noticed that she had put her shirt on wrong-side-out. But that only made things worse, so she sent him to tagalong with Dan just to get rid of him.

 

She’s got to do something! The dreams are making everything worse. But she can’t seem to help herself. It’s like a stranger—a mean, bitchy stranger—has taken over her body. She’s curt and cross with Lucifer, she snaps at him, often without any justifiable reason. Everyone’s noticed. Even Dan seems confused by it. Once he felt so bad for Lucifer after one of Chloe’s blowups that he actually offered him his pudding, but Lucifer was too upset to accept it even though he was clearly touched by such a generous gesture.

 

The truth is, she’s angry because Lucifer disturbs her nights and makes her dread sleep. First, he wanted her, then he didn’t, then maybe he did again, because other boys’ toys always seem more attractive, but it really doesn’t matter, her heart is not a yo-yo for him to play with. And he can’t buy her with luxuries either. She’s not some money-hungry, gold-digging slut! He only wanted her until she wanted him back and then he dropped her cold! So she moved on. What did he expect her to do? Spend the rest of her life pining for him, take a vow of chastity, become a nun? Why should she? His bed is never cold! She’s done the right and responsible thing and chosen Pierce, a good man, solid and dependable, who (mostly) treats her right, and Lucifer is just going to have to accept that.

 

How dare he torment her like this? Sleep deprivation is a form of torture! Sometimes she wants to fly at him like a screaming fury, pound his chest, and even slap, scratch and bite him. She actually did throw a thousand-count box of paperclips at him once. But he just stood there and gave her that bewildered, deer-in-the-headlights stare. The precinct went dead quiet after that and everyone, even suspects brought in for questioning, wanted to help Lucifer pick the shiny silver paperclips out of his dark hair and suit. He was deluged with Cool Ranch Puffs and Teeny Tiny Donuts from the vending machine and stroked and petted by practically the whole precinct, except Chloe and Pierce of course. Pierce just shrugged and said “she can throw a chair at him for all I care.” Dan patted Lucifer’s back and said “if it makes you feel any better, buddy, she threw a bucket of fried chicken at me once.” And Ella gave him a big hug and made excuses about Chloe being a jittery bride. But others were not so kind; she’d heard the phrases “mean bitch” and “unhinged Bridezilla” applied to herself several times.

 

To make matters worse, she can see just how hurt and confused Lucifer is. He doesn’t understand why she’s so mad at him. He looks at her like a dog that loves its mistress and yearns to come close, seeking affection, but is afraid of being yelled at and kicked. Each and every time he looks at her that way it tears Chloe’s heart in two like a red tissue paper Valentine. More than once he’s asked “Detective, what have I done?” with a desperate, plaintive, childlike quiver in his voice. Every time, she has to turn her back on him and walk away so he won’t see her tears. She can’t answer him, so she just brushes him off, and her guilt multiples; by now it’s breeding like bunnies.

 

There are evenings when she nods off exhausted on the couch and wakes suddenly from dreams of Lucifer kneeling before her, peeling her pants and panties off in one fast, fluid motion, and burying his face reverently between her legs. It’s like he’s worshiping and adoring her with his mouth. He takes his time and does wonderful things with his lips and tongue, and even nibbles a little with his teeth. The pleasure is so exquisite it makes Chloe cry. She wakes every time with her face bathed in tears and her crotch soaking wet.

 

Some nights she’s so frustrated and angry that it’s all she can do not to jump in her car and drive to Lux with the siren on, storm into his penthouse, snatch Lucifer up from his piano bench, and shove him back onto the bed, rip open his shirt, unzip his pants, and climb on top of him, and yell at him to just do it and get it over with so she can get on with her life, marry Pierce, and be happy. The only reason she doesn’t is because she’s afraid that he won’t, that he’ll reject her again, and then it’ll be just another humiliation she’ll have to live down. She’ll be reminded of it every time she looks at him even if he never says a word about it.

 

Then the daydreams began—guilty dreams by night, guilty dreams by day!—leaving Chloe wondering would she have to be dead before she could ever rest in peace?

 

She’s at the bridal salon, alone in the dressing room, the consultant has just stepped out for a moment, leaving Chloe standing in front of the mirror feeling swamped by a _Gone With The Wind_ humungous hoop-skirted white-on-white floral sprig embroidered off-the-shoulder gown; it really does look like an all-white replica of Scarlett O’Hara’s barbeque dress. Suddenly she’s overcome by the most intense, visceral fantasy of Lucifer striding in and pinning her against the wall. Over his shoulder, she can see herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, silk organza and tulle wadded up around her waist, as he tears off her panties as easily as if they were made of paper lace. She’s wet and ready, and he takes her, hard and fast, without preamble, as she clings to him with her legs wrapped tight around his hips. The fantasy is so real it brings Chloe panting to her knees. She actually imagines she can feel the fiery memory of his kisses scorching her skin and his still warm semen dripping down her thighs and seeping into the crinoline petticoats.

 

Clarice, the bridal consultant, finds Chloe crouched on the floor, billowing hoop skirt almost up to her ears, shaking and sobbing. To her, it’s just another panic attack, she’s been in this business fifteen years; Chloe is just the latest in a long line of nervous brides she’s had to mother and soothe. With Kleenex and kind words, she manages to calm Chloe down, dry her tears, and persuade her to go out and show her mother and friends the gown.

 

The day rapidly turns into a nightmare. Every time she tries a dress on, as soon as she looks in the mirror, all Chloe can see is Lucifer. He’s either standing in front of her, lifting her up, or behind her, bending her over, gathering up handfuls of gleaming white satin, taffeta, silk, lace, lamé, chiffon or tulle, as he thrusts into her. Or he’s down on his knees, gazing up at her adoringly with that familiar dear cheeky grin before ducking his head beneath layers of billowing crinoline to do the most tantalizing things with his tongue. He peels sparkly mermaid and slinky sequined gowns off her as easily as if they were banana skins so she’s left standing bare before him in her white satin high heels. It doesn’t matter if she looks like a Disney Princess, a Las Vegas showgirl, red carpet ready, Great Gatsby glam, flower child hippie chic in crocheted oatmeal-colored lace with a wreath of flowers around her head, Grace Kelly classy, or modest as a Mormon maiden, her very own Devil is going to claim her as his own, branding her with burning kisses.

 

It’s just too much! After trying on about a dozen dresses, she says she wants to go home, she’s not feeling well. Of course, as luck would have it, Ella starts dropping hints about beautiful Pecker babies and everyone starts clucking like mother hens, smiling and exchanging knowing glances, and asking about her periods. It’s all Chloe can do not to scream, fall on her knees, and beat her head against the floor.

 

Chloe is convinced she’s going mad. Her knees just won’t stop trembling; they’re knocking so much she’s going to have bruises. And, even worse, she’s sweating so badly, and Daydream-Lucifer has her panties so wet, she’s certain the bridal consultant must think she has a personal hygiene problem.  The woman has already mentioned a very nervous bride who had Botox injections in her armpits, groin, and beneath her breasts, to combat excessive sweatiness. She even produces the doctor’s business card and, with a sympathetic smile, slips it discreetly into Chloe’s hand once she’s back in her street clothes and on her way out the door.

 

The cake tasting the next afternoon is equally disastrous. Chloe wants nothing to do with lemon chiffon cake, raspberry mousse, or hazelnut cream filling. She’s practically swooning over red velvet and devil’s food cake, cheeks aflame and mind awash with wild and wicked fantasies involving buttercream, strawberries, whipped cream, and chocolate fondue. When the baker informs her that coffee and cream is one of their most popular wedding cake flavors, all Chloe can think of is Lucifer and sweet and sticky caramel drizzle. She can’t stop her knees from shaking. She’s sitting in a white wrought iron chair at a table covered in pink and white checked gingham with a selection of small cakes spread out before her, rocking back and forth, hugging herself, laughing and crying hysterically while everyone just stares at her. When it comes to sex, Chloe has always thought of herself as Plain Jane vanilla, so why is she suddenly fantasizing about the Devil licking cake frosting out of her vagina? Penelope Decker frowns at her daughter over a sampler of sugar flowers, offers her a Valium, and suggests she see a doctor soon.

 

Chloe wishes she could talk to Dr. Linda about it. But Linda is her friend, and Lucifer’s therapist, she’s playing an active role in the wedding preparations, so the lines are just too blurred for Chloe to feel comfortable. She knows she could go to another therapist, but she doesn’t have the energy. At least with Linda there would be a lot less explaining to do. But she’ll be damned first before she ends up in a straightjacket for trying to explain Lucifer Bloody Morningstar to some random therapist. Then Linda would come to visit her in the psych ward and want to know why she didn’t come to her in the first place. Why does it all have to be so damn complicated?

 

Finally, Chloe can’t stand it any longer and calls in sick. She’s determined to catch up on her sleep before she has a nervous breakdown or falls asleep behind the wheel and actually kills somebody. She’s already come close to running down a clown on a bicycle, a Saint Bernard dog, and a Snow Cone stand. Every time she starts to get behind the wheel, she gets into an argument with Lucifer over her keys; he doesn’t think it’s safe for her to be driving, but Chloe’s not about to give him the satisfaction of admitting that he’s right. Bystanders watch them like a couple in a rom-com and shout things like “Get a room!” “Kiss!” “Make out already!” or “Don’t let her talk to you like that; spank that ass, buddy!”

 

Actually, Lucifer was very sweet when she side-swiped that hearse. He never once said “I told you so” or anything to make her feel bad about driving when she really shouldn’t have been. When she burst into tears and threw herself into his arms, Lucifer held her and said “there, there, Detective,” and rubbed her back. He assured her that Mr. Dziemianowicz wasn’t any deader than he had been before the accident happened and he hadn’t felt a thing, it was such a gentle, glancing blow that it hadn’t even knocked that atrocious arrangement of purple tiger lilies spelling “Herman” off the top of the hearse, and as for the scratch, it was so slight it could be fixed with a black Sharpie, and there was no need to trouble her insurance company about it because the funeral director owed him a favor. Then he invited the whole funeral cortège to Lux for drinks on the house after the graveside service. He even made a quick call to a caterer to order them a lovely brunch and arranged for Amenadiel to be there to have Appletinis with Gladys, the grieving gray-haired widow, and Winston, her ancient wire-haired fox terrier. Just thinking about it is enough to make Chloe cry all over again. She feels like such a monster for being so mean to him!

 

She’s just got to get some sleep before her life falls completely apart!

 

She’s arranged for Lucifer to work with Dan—he has a case about a ditzy blonde, balloon-breasted ex-model suspected of killing her rich, elderly husband with an exotic aquarium fish, so maybe Chloe’s own personal devil won’t be too bored. And she’s even turned the volume off so her phone won’t disturb her. If there are any emergencies, she’s counting on Pierce, Dan, and her mother to handle them. She just wants peace, quiet, and several uninterrupted hours of deep, dreamless sleep.

 

After seeing Trixie off to school, Chloe lights several of her favorite vanilla-scented candles and takes a warm bath with soothing lavender salts. When she can barely keep her eyes open, she gets out of the tub and pulls on a white cotton camisole and matching panties and falls into her freshly made bed. Her head has scarcely touched the pillows before she’s out like a light. And then the dreams begin…The slow, long, lazy, lingering kisses rambling down her body, taking a leisurely tour, pausing to visit places of particular interest. He devours her lips, both above and below, like a starving man. Lucifer explores, tastes, and caresses her, learning her body like a blind man does Braille, he isn’t satisfied until he’s memorized every inch of her. And then he’s on top of her, inside her, and she’s swept away, bucking and writhing, on crashing waves of ecstasy.

 

She awakens to the feel of a cold wet washcloth gently bathing her face and throat. It feels heavenly! It’s just what she needs; her skin feels so hot and sticky, and her hair is plastered uncomfortably to the back of her neck. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she’d fallen asleep in front of a furnace. A hand lifts her hair, carefully freeing the stubbornly clinging strands from her skin, and she sighs beneath the washcloth’s cool caress. It sweeps down her neck and glides over the parts of her back and shoulders left bare by her cami. Pierce must have been feigning indifference when she called in sick, he really was worried about her, and now he’s come to take care of her… Chloe smiles and slowly opens her eyes, expecting to see her fiancé, but as the hand holding the washcloth retreats from her collarbone, breezing gently, like a whisper, just above her cleavage, she recognizes the onyx and antiqued silver ring.

 

Chloe whirls around to find Lucifer lounging on the bed beside her, wearing nothing but his black silk boxer shorts and a worried frown. She has to pinch herself to make sure she isn’t dreaming, but since they aren’t having sex, she’s willing to bet this is all too real.

 

“Lucifer! What the...” she bolts up, scrambling for the covers and clutching them tightly over her chest. The lace-edged ribbed white cotton camisole she’s wearing leaves very little to the imagination, and since sweat and water dripped from the washcloth have glued it to every curve of her breasts it’s even more revealing. Even worse, her nipples are blatantly erect, straining against the fabric. “What are you doing here? And why are you in your underwear and in my bed?”

 

“You’ve never been sick before, Chloe, and I was afraid.” There’s that soft, timid childlike tone tugging at her heart again. His eyes search her face, seeking reassurance, and she can tell he really is worried about her.

 

Of course, Dan would have told him she was taking a sick day. She’s been on medical leave twice since they started working together, courtesy of Jimmy Barnes’ bullet and Professor Carlisle’s poison, but that was different, Lucifer was involved in both cases, he knew what was going on. But this, her calling in sick, out of the blue, for no obvious reason, is something new.

 

“When I got here, you were delirious, moaning and squirming and thrashing about like a possessed woman in a horror movie. You called for me, Detective, so I thought you must need me to take care of you. Your skin was all sweaty and hot from the fever, and you had kicked off the covers and torn off most of your clothes.” He points to the garments strewn sloppily across the floor, the ones she’d thrown on to get Trixie ready for school then right back off again before her bath, so tired that she had given in to this rare lapse in tidiness.

 

Chloe groans as a burning blush turns her face bright red. She’s suddenly all too aware that her panties are missing again, lost in the throes of that last tempestuous dream. Great, just great! Lucifer has seen her with her legs wide open moaning his name. She hugs the bedspread tighter—at least he had the decency to cover her back up. The only consolation is he apparently really thinks she was delirious with fever. Which is really very strange; you’d think a person as promiscuous as Lucifer would recognize a wet dream when he sees one. Behold the power of suggestion! She probably should thank Dan for that; and she would if the circumstances weren’t so embarrassing. She puts a palm over her eyes and shakes her head and moans miserably.

 

“Do you have a headache, darling?” Lucifer asks solicitously.

 

“Yes! No! I don’t know!”  She feels like she’s about to burst into tears. Why is this happening to her?

 

Brows furrowing with concern, Lucifer runs the damp washcloth carefully over her shoulder and down the bare arm clutching the covers, stopping at her wrist because he doesn’t want to risk offending her by going too far. Then he lifts her hair and bathes her neck and back again.

 

“I thought you might need a cold shower, or possibly an ice bath, if a sponge-bath didn’t help bring the fever down, only I couldn’t find a sponge in your bathroom and I thought the ones in the kitchen would be much too abrasive, so I used a washcloth instead,” he explains as he delicately dabs the moist cloth at her upper chest, taking care not to stray too near her breasts, “so I undressed, to be ready, should it be necessary. I read enough novels during the Victorian era, the Brontë sisters and such, to know that brain fever is a very serious matter; people can be delirious, twisting and flailing about and raving for weeks, and even die of it, and for those who survive, there’s a prolonged period of weakness afterwards, some never fully recover…”

 

He plumps her pillows and guides her gently to lean back against them.

 

Brain fever, Victorian novels, seriously? That’s just what she needs right now— _Jane Eyre_ , _Wuthering_ _Heights_ , and Lucifer breaking into her apartment to play Florence Nightingale! Chloe rolls her eyes as Lucifer dips the washcloth in her red plastic salad bowl, wrings some of the water out, and then drapes it across her forehead.

 

 “I stopped by the drugstore on my way here,” he leans down and pulls three big, bulging to the point of bursting, double-bagged white plastic sacks onto the bed. “Detective Douche only said that you were sick, so I wasn’t sure what you would need, so I got a little of everything. I just want you to feel better, Chloe—” it’s the second time in the last few minutes that he’s called her by her actual name, his voice softening over the syllables, so she knows he’s serious—“I’ve been so worried about you, I can hardly sleep…”

 

When he upends the bags Chloe’s mind boggles at the array of drugstore goods pouring out onto her bed.

 

The big brand name pain relievers are all there along with orange baby aspirin, old-fashioned headache powders, cherry, grape and bubblegum flavored cough syrups, Vicks VapoRub, a selection of popular allergy medications, cold and flu remedies, bottles of Nyquil and Dayquil, strawberry, blackberry, and white tea-passion fruit flavored Melatonin gummies, pills for PMS and migraines, chewable grape motion sickness tablets, cranberry caplets for urinary tract infections, brightly colored gummy multivitamins, vivid orange Vitamin C gummies shaped like orange slices, chocolate calcium chews, fruit-flavored lip balms, Probiotic gummies, and yet more gummies formulated for hair, skin, and nails, eye and ear drops, throat and nasal sprays, pain-relief patches, hemorrhoid cooling pads, a twin-pack of Fleet enemas, Glycerin suppositories, pink laxative pills just for women, various creams, gels and ointments for arthritis, toothache, cold and canker sores, burns, skin irritations, poison oak and ivy, insect bites, toenail fungus, ringworm, hemorrhoids, varicose veins, vaginal itch, and jellyfish stings, pink calamine lotion, packets of soothing oatmeal bath treatments, tropical fruit flavored antacid tablets, heartburn relief gummies and chews, a bottle of bright pink Pepto-Bismol, cherry crème chewable anti-gas tablets, cough drops, anti-snoring nasal strips, wart remover, corn pads, bunion cushions, and Hello Kitty band-aids. He’s even bought her tampons in both super and regular absorbencies—the black box brand with the colorful plastic applicators—yeast infection treatment, and an assortment of feminine washes with names like Morning Paradise, Cotton Breeze, Delicate Blossom, Aloe Love, Tropical Rain, and Island Splash, there’s even something called Sweet Romance Douche. And there’s an anxiously thumbed issue of _Women’s Health_ _Magazine_ with several dog-eared pages that he must have grabbed from the rack beside the checkout counter while the cashier was busy ringing up his purchases. The magazine flops open on one of the earmarked pages—a checklist of tips about how to choose the right gynecologist—and Chloe rolls her eyes.

 

It’s as though Santa Claus waited until the very last minute before the stores closed on Christmas Eve to do his shopping then raced through a drugstore where all the toys and candy were sold out, snatching anything colorful and resembling candy from the shelves—he seems particularly drawn to gummies—and devoting special attention to the feminine care aisle and pink colored products.

 

And what’s with all the vaginal washes? He’s bought more of this than any other product. Is he trying to tell her something? Like maybe he wants to wash every trace of Pierce out of her? Or was he just attracted to the colorful packaging or uncertain which fragrances she would prefer? But if that were the case, then surely he would have gone just as crazy with the lip balms. As the mother of a nine-year-old daughter who begs for a new tube every time they go to the store, Chloe knows there’s almost an infinite variety of rainbow-colored fruity and fun flavored lip balms, but Lucifer only bought three—green apple, grape, and cherry. And the same reasoning could also be applied to the cough drops; he only bought Luden’s wild cherry and honey-licorice.

 

Chloe just sits and stares. She can’t believe he bought all this. They must really love Lucifer at Walgreens! And if she has anything to say about it, he’s not going back in there anytime soon.

 

“Will it help?” he asks anxiously. “If what you require isn’t here, I can arrange to have a private plane fly you to the Mayo Clinic within the hour, or I can go back to the drugstore again. You’re my human, and I have to take care of you; I don’t want you to die and leave me alone!”

 

In that instant, all her anger disappears; it just evaporates into the air. It was there inside her, simmering and boiling for so long, and now it’s just…gone. The insanity is suddenly all burned out, like she really was sick with some crazy, mad, delirious fever that has just fizzled out as suddenly as it began. She knows she’s been irrational and cruel, blaming and punishing Lucifer for something that isn’t really his fault, and she’s genuinely sorry. He really is her best friend, the only person she’s ever truly been comfortable letting her guard down around, and she’s treated him terribly, worse than she would ever treat a dog. She’s got a lot of soul-searching and introspection to do, and maybe she really should talk to a therapist, but right now, all Chloe knows for certain is she can’t stay mad at this anxiety-riven man-child a moment longer.

 

He’s sitting there looking at her with his dark chocolate eyes so full of concern, gnawing nervously at his lower lip while studying her face, trying to gauge her reaction. And she notices suddenly just how tired he looks, his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, he has more stubble than usual, and his hair’s a little wild. He’s just gone on this crazy drugstore shopping spree because he’s freaking out, thinking she’s sick, maybe even to the point of dying, and that’s a far cry from trying to woo her with a new car and chateaubriand. He isn’t competing with Pierce now; he’s just being Lucifer, her Lucifer, only a little more subdued because he’s so worried and tired. Okay, admittedly the wording is a little odd—she’s his human?—but it’s heartfelt, he’s telling her how he feels as best he can. It makes her wonder, has Lucifer ever said “I love you” to anyone? And has anyone ever said it to him?

 

“Come here,” Chloe opens her arms to him.

 

He only hesitates for one shy second, and then Lucifer lays his head trustingly on her shoulder and wraps his arms around her and holds on tight, like he never wants to let her go. She rests her chin against his shoulder and strokes his back and feels him relax beneath her hand, surrendering himself to the embrace.

 

Even though the outer package is wholly full-grown male, sexy and seemingly confident, inside there’s a frightened, high-strung child. That’s part of the problem. Chloe wants a man to love her and share her life; being the only responsible adult gets old, tired, and lonely. The nurturer and protector wants to feel nurtured and protected too. She wants to be taken care of sometimes, instead of always being the one who takes care of everyone else all the time. And there are times when she just wants to let go, relax, have fun, and enjoy herself, within reason, of course. Sometimes she despairs of ever finding the right balance between her roles as mother, cop, and woman. With Pierce she thought she was finally on the right path. Pierce is like her, someone who grew up early and fast; responsible and in control, sane and measured, but also capable of encouraging her to loosen up and live a little bit. But Lucifer is a forever-child forever running from his feelings. It reminds her of that old David Cassidy song: _This morning I woke up with this feeling I didn't know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself I'd hide it to myself and never talk about it…_ As a teenage actress, Chloe had once auditioned for a jeans commercial featuring that song, and even though she didn’t get the job, she’s never really gotten it out of her mind.

 

Yet she can’t deny how good this feels, and how right. These are the arms she wants to hold her. Childlike and infuriating as he is at times, reckless and unfiltered, this is the man she wants to hold. Maybe she is his human, the one who reins him in and brings him down to earth, and he’s her own personal devil—whatever, she’s too tired to wrestle with his crazy metaphors now. As hot and heady as the dreams have been, this one true moment puts them all to shame. It’s like this embrace is an exorcism, purging her soul of all its torment. The dreams are gone now—somehow she just knows that—they’ve served their purpose, whatever that was. Suddenly she feels more at peace than she has in months. Maybe because her heart has just overruled her head and made the decision.

 

“Lucifer, everything’s okay. I’m fine, really, there’s nothing for you to worry about,” she says gently, reassuringly, and continues stroking his back. “This is 21st century LA, not _Wuthering Heights_ , I don’t have brain fever, and I don’t plan on dying for a very long time, I don’t need to go to the Mayo Clinic, and _please_ don’t go to the drugstore again. I’m not really sick…”

 

“But you were delirious, Detective, I saw you…”

 

“No, Lucifer, listen, I haven’t been sleeping well, the truth is…I’ve been having dreams…”

 

“Bad dreams? Nightmares?”

 

“Well…no…not…bad, just…distracting is probably the best word; dreams that distracted me from getting the rest I needed, that’s why I’ve been so tired and, let’s be honest, mean and bitchy. Anyway,” she rushes on, hoping he won’t press her to elaborate on the distracting nature of her dreams, “I just wanted to take a day off to try to catch up on my sleep, that’s all. Dan really should have explained that to you so you wouldn’t worry.”

 

“Detective Douche was rather busy at the time,” Lucifer admits with a wicked grin. “He had just bitten into a Danish and the cherry and cream cheese filling burst out all over his shirt.”

 

“Oh,” Chloe nods knowingly and smiles, “yeah, I figured it was something like that. I know I’ve been a real bitch lately, and I’ve treated you badly, very badly, and I’m sorry for that, Lucifer, I truly am. Yeah, I’ve had a lot on my mind, but you don’t deserve to be the scapegoat for my problems, and I shouldn’t have treated you like that, and all I can say is I’m very, very sorry, and even that doesn’t feel like nearly enough. Will you forgive me please?”

 

“Of course I will, anything for you, Detective,” he reaches out to tenderly brush her hair back from her face. “I’m just glad you’re not sick. Shall I call and cancel the fifty pounds of ice I ordered for your bath?”

 

“Yeah, good idea,” Chloe nods. “I don’t think we have room for it in the freezer.”

 

While he’s busy on the phone, Chloe spies her white panties folded neatly on the nightstand with her diamond engagement ring sitting atop them. Relieved at finding them so conveniently nearby, as though Lucifer had anticipated her need, she reaches for them.

 

“You should have it fixed before you wear it again,” Lucifer says, thinking she’s reaching for the ring. But Chloe surprises him and leaves it sitting, sparkly and alone, on the nightstand.

 

“The center stone is loose,” he explains after ending his call, “one of the prongs is bent; it was caught in the lace of your panties when I found it on the floor. Actually, the prongs are too short for a ring like this—one that you’ll wear everyday. For a special occasion ring I suppose it might do, but for daily wear, certainly not; it’ll never be secure, you’ll always be worrying about it, and you’re bound to lose that stone eventually, running after a suspect or something. And that isn’t right; an engagement ring should make a woman feel secure, not give her something else to worry about. Most people make the mistake of thinking that jewelry is all about appearances, that how it looks is all that matters,” as he talks he toys with his onyx ring, “but little details like that are important.”

 

Now there’s a pearl of wisdom! She never would have expected this promiscuous playboy to make such astute observations about the symbolism and construction of engagement rings. With his wealth, she assumed he would regard the loss of a diamond, or any other gem, as a mere annoyance and just buy another without thinking much about it. Once again, Lucifer has surprised her—in a good way.

 

“Very important,” Chloe agrees as she drops the ring with its wobbly diamond in the nightstand drawer and slams it shut. She doesn’t feel secure in her engagement, and the emblem of it—the ring that has never really felt right on her finger—isn’t either.

 

“Do you want to lie down and take a nap with me?” This spontaneously uttered invitation surprises her; she didn’t know she was going to say it until the words were already out. But she suddenly finds the idea of cuddling, of just being close to Lucifer, very appealing.

 

“Really?” he asks hopefully as though he’s not quite sure if the offer’s real or if she’s teasing.

 

“Yeah,” she nods, “but no funny business,” she adds as she scoots down in the bed, careful to keep the covers pulled up high, while she wiggles back into her panties. “And you have to get up and get dressed before Trixie comes home; I don’t want to confuse her, okay?”

 

“Of course, whatever you say, Detective,” Lucifer watches her wiggling with some amusement as he begins gathering up the drugstore bounty scattered all over the bed and putting it back in the bags. “You really should leave them off, you know,” he says, “according to _Women’s Health_ _Magazine_ sleeping without underwear can be highly beneficial for a variety of reasons; first and foremost, you should allow your skin time to breathe, and the best time to do that is when you’re sleeping. If it’ll make you feel more comfortable, I could take mine off too…” he starts to reach for the waistband of his boxers.

 

“Lucifer…” Chloe quickly reaches out a hand to stop him and shakes her head. “And you were doing so well! You actually broke your record of being good for more than five minutes; I was really hoping you might make it to ten.”

 

“Detective, I was only trying to help!” he protests, grabbing the magazine and holding it up, open to the appropriate page where a woman in a Marilyn style white dress is gleefully taking a pair of scissors to her panties above the title _The Right Way to Go Commando_. 

 

“I know,” Chloe sighs, “and your devotion to my vaginal health is really…sweet in a weird kind of way, but I’m not ready for that kind of help just yet. Maybe later, okay? Now lie down and let’s see if we can both get some much needed sleep.”

 

“But don’t you want to take something first? For the headache you may or may not have? Or some vitamins maybe? The nice blue-haired lady at the drugstore was adamant that you should be taking vitamins every day, and extra Vitamin C when you’re feeling tired or rundown. I got you gummies!” he smiles and shakes the bottle enticingly. “Who doesn’t love gummies?”

 

 “Let’s just put those on the nightstand for now, so I won’t forget. It’s always better to take vitamins with food.”

 

“That’s just what the labels say,” Lucifer nods approvingly. “And speaking of food, I bought the ingredients to make you chicken soup. The lady at the drugstore recommended it, apparently it’s good for the soul, the common cold, and many other human woes, because it’s…comforting…reassuring. Whole books have been written about the subject apparently; inspirational stories…about soup,” he seems mystified by the idea. “Really, Detective, I had no idea chicken broth and noodles could be such a transcendent experience for you humans! But I wasn’t about to buy you that awful stuff in a can with the vile, slimy noodles in it! I had some of that once, but the less said about that traumatic experience the better. So I made a quick stop at the market before I came here. I’ll prepare it before I leave, so you and the child can have it for dinner.”

 

“Lucifer, that’s so sweet of you, but you don’t have to go to all this trouble…”

 

“Really, Detective, it’s no trouble at all! I like taking care of you, and, if I do say so myself, I think I’m rather good at it.” He favors her with his most endearing grin.

 

Chloe rolls her eyes and tries hard not to smile. “Yeah, you’re the only guy who ever bought me a denture relining kit because I called in sick.” She picks up the little blue and red cardboard box he missed, lodged against her hip, and hands it to him.

 

“Did I really?” Lucifer frowns down at it.

 

“Yeah, you kind of did,” Chloe smiles.

 

“I was so frantic; I must have picked it up by mistake. I’ll take it back to the store later and…”

 

“No!” Chloe says gently but firmly. “No more drugstores for you!”

 

“But you’re going to need lots of things, and I’m not sure Lieutenant Pierce understands that!” Lucifer protests worriedly. “You need to be properly rested and nourished. Obviously, there’s an issue involving sleep, and this clearly needs attention, it’s absolutely vital to your health and wellbeing, and why it’s been allowed to endure this long…The day you hit that hearse I should have taken you straight to the penthouse and tucked you into my bed,” he abruptly stops himself and gives her an alarmed, wary look, fearing he’s gone too far. “But does he know to make sure you eat properly, not just those terrible sandwiches from the vending machine? And please tell me he would never feed you canned soup! But only if it’s true, of course; please don’t lie to make me feel better. And does he feed you strawberries?” He scrambles for the magazine again. “There’s an excellent article here about the health benefits of strawberries, they can help lower the risk of heart attacks in women aged 25 to 42—so that includes you, Detective!—and a study at the University of Massachusetts suggests they can help alleviate the symptoms of inflammatory bowel disease. Really, I had no idea! I just thought they were sensual and yummy! And does he make sure you get all the essential vitamins and minerals? The lady at the drugstore said you should be taking a daily calcium tablet, but I thought those looked chalky and large enough to choke a horse, so I got you the chocolate ones instead. If you must take a pill everyday I think it should be palatable; if it’s something you enjoy you’re less likely to forget to take it. But it’s not just about pills and berries and gynecologists, Detective, you’re so much more than a badge and a womb; your life shouldn’t be all work and taking care of your spawn. You’re made for more, Chloe, and you deserve more, and I don’t just mean in bed, though I do mean that too of course, but you simply must take time for you, to pamper yourself and to play. I mean…Does he make sure you smile and laugh every day? Does he always try to make every day, and every night, the best of your life? You always put everyone before yourself, but you need to come first too, so you need someone who will put you above all things. You deserve…”

 

“Someone who is worthy of me?” Chloe interrupts as the tears begin to fall down her face.

 

“Detective! I’ve said the wrong thing again, haven’t I?” he reaches out worriedly, and for a moment he looks like he’s going to cry too, he’s that upset.

 

“Lucifer…”

 

He leans over the side of the bed and quickly empties the Walgreens bags out onto the floor, rummaging desperately amongst the boxes, bottles and tubes.

 

“I bought eye drops!” he smiles as he triumphantly produces the little box. “Oh…” he frowns. “These are for dry eyes, not ones that are already wet…”

 

“Lucifer, I don’t need eye drops…”

 

“Well obviously not these!’ he flings them petulantly across the room. “Detective, are you quite sure you don’t need to go to the Mayo Clinic? You may have a vitamin deficiency, or a chemical imbalance, or a thyroid disorder. _Women’s Health_ _Magazine_ says that exposure to pesticides heightens the risk of certain gynecological disorders, and you’ve had that sickly looking plant on your desk for…”

 

Chloe stops him with a kiss that takes Lucifer’s breath away and leaves him momentarily speechless.

 

“Mmmm…Detective…” he leans willingly into her embrace, wanting more.

 

“Lucifer, just shut up and get in the bed…”

 

She wraps her arms around him and pulls him in, under the covers with her. She kisses him again, longer this time, and deeper, then she rolls onto her side, guiding him to spoon around her.

 

To her surprise, he behaves beautifully; he settles himself beside her and snuggles close, but not in a suggestive manner. His arm drapes over her waist and his hand soon finds hers.

 

In Lucifer’s arms, Chloe discovers she feels completely relaxed and safe, comforted and protected. All the tension melts away and she feels no need to be on guard. Being vulnerable with him really isn’t a bad thing. And soon she’s sound asleep, deeply and dreamlessly, just as she desired. She doesn’t need the dreams now. This is real and she knows beyond a doubt that it’s right.

 

She awakens hours later, ravenously hungry. Lucifer insists on making her breakfast. He kisses her bare shoulder and slips out of bed.

 

“Lucifer, put some clothes…on...” Chloe calls halfheartedly after him, but it’s too late, he’s already gone. Oh well…She lets her head flop back against the pillows. It’s okay for today, no harm done; it’s just the two of them. Casual nudity is fine for his penthouse, but she doesn’t want him to get in the habit of walking around her apartment in his underwear, or even less; he’s so uninhibited he might forget when Trixie’s home. She makes a mental note to suggest he bring a robe to keep in her closet.

 

He makes her chocolate chip pancakes garnished with a little whipped cream and the fresh strawberries he bought for her when he was shopping for the ingredients to make soup. They have breakfast in bed, eating off the same plate with two forks, using his bare chest as a table, feeding each other strawberries, and talking and laughing as they haven’t in a long time. It feels really good, and makes Chloe realize just how much she’s missed his company.

 

Afterwards, Lucifer insists that she take her vitamins.

 

“Marvelous invention—gummies,” he muses, taking a couple of the Vitamin C ones himself. “Everyone loves them, even Amenadiel. He likes them best for breakfast, preferably the ones shaped like little bears, in omelettes with sharp cheddar cheese and broccoli florets.”

 

Chloe almost chokes on this revelation. “Do you?” she asks, almost dreading the answer.

 

“Dad, no, I detest broccoli!” Lucifer declares with supreme disdain.

 

Chloe laughs harder than she has in so long she can’t even remember. Of course, like a typical child, Lucifer hates broccoli. Why isn’t she surprised?

 

Presently, he leaves her to start the soup. He’s quite comfortable padding around her apartment practically naked; he’s not playing the preening, strutting peacock now, there’s a sort of innocence about it, like a child relishing the sense of freedom before the age when that instinctive need for modesty usually kicks in. It’s oddly adorable. He even answers the door like that. But it’s okay; at least it’s not Pierce or her mother, only the mailman. He’s gay, and the sight of Lucifer just makes his day.

 

“My, what a lot of mail you get, Detective! You must be more popular than I thought!” Lucifer comes back into the bedroom to bring her the mail and settles himself cross-legged on the foot of the bed, fascinated by the glossy stack of what is obviously junk mail. “Lovely chap,” he says of the postman, “he’s never even met me, and yet he congratulated me and said he hoped I would be very happy. But, just in case I’m not, he wrote his phone number down on the back of this postcard about a bake sale at your child’s school. But I’m not in the mood…for him,” he gives her a meaningful look and wets his lips as he hands her the cheerful hot pink cupcake and cookie bordered card. “What are you going to bake?”

 

“I’m not,” Chloe glances at the card and sets it aside, “it’s Dan’s turn this time.”

 

“Really?” Lucifer’s brows arch high in surprise.  “Dan is going to bake? This I really must see!”

 

Chloe shrugs. “Suit yourself, but there’s really nothing to see. He’ll just get some cupcakes from the grocery store bakery and scrape the icing off and put some Betty Crocker or Duncan Hines frosting on instead, so they look more...you know…sloppy…homemade, without that fancy swirly thing the bakeries do. And he’ll throw on some rainbow sprinkles, or maybe buy a couple of those little tubes of colored gel icing and zigzag some of that on top if he’s feeling creative. It’ll be fine. We’ve been doing this since Trixie started school.”

 

Lucifer frowns. “But the card clearly states that each child’s parent is supposed to provide a homemade…”

 

“Lucifer, only stay-at-home parents have the time and energy to do that sort of thing, everyone else works and…”

 

“…doesn’t have the time or energy apparently to teach their offspring to appreciate important things like homemade baked goods and honesty!” he counters hotly.

 

“Don’t look at me like that, Lucifer! When it was my turn last year I baked cookies! Okay, yeah, Nestle made the dough, but I baked…”

 

“No, the oven baked them; you just put them inside it and took them out again before they burned!”

 

“Well…almost…they came out a little crispier than I intended, but…I was on the phone with my mother and… Fine, whatever!” Chloe sighs, rolls her eyes, and shifts her hips under the covers. “Talk to Dan about it; you can argue with me when it’s my turn again next year.”

 

“Oh, I will, I most certainly will!” Lucifer promises, licking his lips and looking at her like he wants to pounce and devour her.

 

Chloe has the distinct feeling that this kind of arguing could become a form of foreplay for them. She has a sudden vivid vision of herself and Lucifer making love on the kitchen floor amidst clouds of flour, showers of rainbow sprinkles, gooey cake batter, and fallen kitchen utensils. Maybe she should talk to Dan and see how much he’s really into doing the bake sale thing this year? If she tells him how eager Lucifer is to help…

 

“So what kind of mail did we get?” Chloe asks quickly to change the subject and curb desires she’s not ready to act on just yet. She’s startled by how naturally and easily the “we” slips out.

 

“Let’s see…” At being given permission, Lucifer delightedly digs into the pile, it’s as though he’s never seen junk mail before. “Publishers Clearing House wants to give you $5,000 a week for the rest of your life. Surely there must be a catch? I noticed there were several packets just like this in the postman’s satchel, so they must be making the same offer to all of your neighbors as well. Ah and here’s your free trial issue of _Birds & Blooms_ with features on how to attract colorful warblers, birdhouse basics, and how to grow the best basil ever. And a DVD to show you all the advantages of installing a stairlift in your home, but I don’t think you need one; you really don’t have that many steps at all, it hardly seems worthwhile. Interesting…” he ponders a postcard. “If you buy a hearing aid they will give you a free ham. Is that really such an incentive for people to buy hearing aids, Detective? A free ham…I would think something like a collection of classical music CDs so they can enjoy the pleasure of hearing good music again would be much more appropriate. Oh, and look, a packet of carrot seeds! But this makes no sense! They want you to send $25, more if you can, every month to feed hungry children in Africa. But why are they sending you the carrot seeds, you can get carrots from the market; surely it would make more sense to send these to the hungry children instead?”

 

He hesitates over a plain white envelope. “This one is marked _Urgent!_ in red ink. Should I? It might be personal.” At Chloe’s nod he rips it open. “Well! This is hardly what I would call urgent, more like sneaky and deceptive! If you respond within the next seven days they’ll give you 50% off the cover price of _Reptiles_ _Magazine_. If they want to improve the reputation of snakes, they really should rethink their marketing campaign! This practically screams trickery and deceit! Detective, I really don’t think you should; it’s the principle of the thing…”

 

Of course she has no intention of subscribing to _Reptiles_ _Magazine_ , but Chloe can’t stop laughing long enough to tell him. He melts her heart and makes her laugh like no one else ever has. It’s sheer delight to laugh again like this and to see his childlike delight in something so mundane as the junk mail most people barely even glance at before tossing it in the trash.

 

“This one wants you to subscribe to a monthly series of wholesome and inspirational cozy romantic mysteries about Amish quilters. I’m not sure what that even means, but they’ll give you a free tote bag if you’re one of the first 100 people to respond.”

 

“It means no sex or gory details. One of Trixie’s babysitters used to read books like those, she finished one and forgot it on the couch one night, and I was bored so I read it. It was all about a missing butter churn, but they found it, and there was a barn-raising and a wedding at the end.”

 

“How unspeakably drab! And let me guess, they got lots of quilts as wedding presents, and maybe even a cow from the bride’s parents?”

 

“Oh, you read it too?” Chloe teases.

 

“Dad, no! I think I’d sooner read one of those inspirational soup storybooks, or maybe even a phone book from 1982! Mysteries shouldn’t be boring! Where did they find the butter churn? In someone’s attic?”

 

“Hayloft.”

 

“Well that’s practically the same thing! This isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on, much less $14.95 a month, plus $4.95 shipping and handling,” Lucifer pronounces decisively as he rips the reply card in half and flings it over his shoulder. “However, I’ve saved the best for last, you have a package, or rather the Current Resident has a package. That’s why the postman knocked; he couldn’t fit all your mail inside the box.”

 

“Go ahead, open it; see what it is.”

 

Lucifer eagerly tears open the padded brown envelope and scowls as he holds up the contents. “Aunt Kitty’s Organic Kale Kat Treats. Do cats even like kale? Personally, I’ve never thought of it as a treat myself.”

 

“The previous tenant had cats, and we still sometimes get her mail. Trixie’s friend Landa has a cat, so we save all that stuff for her.”

 

Lucifer sets the stack of junk mail on the floor and crawls back up the bed. “I think it’s very sad, Detective,” he says as he takes her in his arms, “you get so much mail, but it’s all rather boring.”

 

 “That’s why it’s called junk mail; most people don’t even bother to look at it, it goes straight into the trash.”

 

“It should, it’s criminal really how many trees have to die in order to entice people to buy hearing aids with offers of free hams.”

 

“If it makes you feel any better, I think most of it is printed on recycled paper.”

 

“I should bloody well hope so! But I can’t honestly say that it make me feel any better.”

 

“Maybe this will?” Chloe says and kisses him again.

 

“Oh yes…”

 

The kisses are soft and tentative at first, but slowly grow a little more adventurous, ardent and deeper, as their bare limbs mingle beneath the bedcovers and their hands slide over skin like shy explorers. Lucifer is docile and sweet, he follows where she leads, and doesn’t press for more; he seems to sense she’s not ready yet. He doesn’t know it, but she’s still haunted by what Pierce said. Maybe they’ll talk about it one night, or maybe she’ll just try to forget it, but right now she doesn’t want to risk spoiling this lovely moment.

 

When the alarm on her phone trills, Chloe sighs and burrows against Lucifer’s chest, not wanting to stir.

 

“We should do this more often,” she says.

 

Lucifer gives her a puzzled look. “But how can we if…”

 

She can tell he’s thinking about Pierce and the wedding.

 

“Change of plans,” she says and climbs over him, boldly lingering for a long moment hovering above him, astride him, her hair hanging down to form a curtain around their faces as they kiss. “But don’t say anything to anyone; it really should come from me. Now, come on, up,” she tugs at his hands, “get dressed. I’m going to take a shower.”

 

Her bedroom floor looks like a drugstore exploded all over it. She pauses and, with a meaningful look back at Lucifer, picks up the Morning Paradise feminine wash. Just in case he bought it to send her a message, she’s sending him one in return. By the smile on his face, she’s right and he gets it. She knows exactly what he’s thinking: This is much better than junk mail.

 


End file.
